The Boyfriend
by Oshun
Summary: Written in response to JunoMagic's HASA 2006 Birthday Challenge: characters from Lord of the Rings in our world. I promise you this one has Middleearth in it and is not a parody. Posting the characters now would ruin the suspense.
1. He's in the Kitchen

_This is a work of fan fiction, inspired works of J R R Tolkien; his characters, settings, places, and languages used in this tale are not mine. Original characters do belong to me. I receive nothing but my own pleasure (and I hope that of my readers) for this work. The work is my intellectual property, is available only for the private enjoyment of its readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author. _

_Written in response to JunoMagic's HASA 2006 Birthday Challenge: characters from Lord of the Rings in our world. I promise you this one has Middle-earth in it and is not a parody. Posting the characters now would ruin the suspense._

**1. He's in the Kitchen**

The creak of the front door pulls me back from my mindless cruising. It is 2:00 a.m. and I haven't written a word for hours, but I did read a seemingly endless loop of more and more obscure academic articles. Unfortunately, the tastiest remain hidden behind subscription services, the annual fees for which could only fit the budget of a full-service university.

I have to stop letting the time get away from me like this. How did it start? Oh, yeah, looking for an Elvish word for lust. Highly unlikely Tolkien created that one. What did Naomi tell me? If there were one, it would have been invented by Morgoth. Sounds great, but no help.

"Lucy? Is that you, honey?" I call. She appears in the doorway. My heart melts. My youngest. Ten years of ballet classes and the best gifted-and-talented programs the public schools have to offer show on her.

"Mom, remember that guy I met?"

Huh? Which one of the two dozen guys I've heard about in the last couple of months, might that one be? The one from city university, from her acting class, from the restaurant, at the corner deli, on the subway, in the dentist office… You get my drift. The kid is a guy magnet and friendly too.

"Which one?"

"I told you. The quiet one. Well, I thought he was quiet. Remember. I said he was kind of the hipster type?" The girl likes her boyfriends with complexities: too young, too old, artists, musicians, unpublished screenwriters, actors (preferably out-of-work or never employed), and so on... Her favorite put down is: "He's too white bread." Hey, what's wrong with a bright young doctor or lawyer (employed)? Or a garbage man (regular union job, good benefits), or a fireman (another union job)? Firemen are hot, fit, and good looking. Everybody likes firemen.

I stand waiting. I can feel my mouth is hanging open. No, this one always needs feedback. I won't get more without speaking.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"He's not really such a hipster, more Euro-trashy I'd say. At least I thought that a few hours ago. Now, well…now, I don't know. He's special. I'd say my gaydar was going off—he's too perfect—only I can tell he likes me… He's in the kitchen. Will you take a look? Just say 'hi.' Please…"

"Oh, Lucy. It's 2:00 a.m. Look at me!" Sure. Nobody cares what a woman of certain age looks like in her own home at two in the morning. But my son's Bob Marley t-shirt (too tight across the stomach, too big everywhere else) and faded flannel pajama bottoms are below even my standards.

"Here put these on," she says, throwing my jeans at me. "Tuck the shirt in."

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_Definitions of Americanisms will be gladly provided upon request._


	2. Introductions

Very tall. Long blond pony tail. Now that is a switch for little Lucy. He gets two points from mom here for not wearing sneakers. I've wondered lately if they actually make real shoes for the male sex anymore. He is looking at a copy of _Time Out New York_, spread out on the kitchen table, with his back to me. They can't seriously be considering going somewhere this late? I know they can and probably are.

The black jeans and t-shirt contrast dramatically with the pale hair and make his legs look a mile long. He turns immediately in one fluid movement and extends his hand.

"Lucy's mother," he says, his voice soft and resonant, with a slow sinful smile that could charm the panties off a Pentecostal church lady. Elegant posture, like Lucy. Nobody is born with such compelling grace. But, I thought she had sworn off ballet dancers more than two years ago. Self-important, vain creatures she told me, and mostly gay, except for the macho, hard-drinking Russians and the Cubans with at least one wife and multiple kiddies waiting in the wings.

His beauty makes me catch my breath: the face of an angel. Not a good thing for a young woman to have to deal with; never worked out well for me when I was fresh and pretty like Lucy. Men that handsome grow too accustomed to being pursued. But, it's not fair to judge a book by its cover.

"Hi," I say and take his hand. His skin is as soft as Lucy's, but his grip is firm, strong. "Lucy asked me to come in and say 'hi.'" Brilliant. I'm nothing if not articulate. "I was just about to stop working and go to bed." Working. Ha! now that's a self-serving picture. Cruising the web, nursing my writer's block like I would a much loved child.

"This is Lasse, Mom," Lucy says.

"That's an unusual name," I volunteer.

"It's a nickname," he says, offering nothing more. Oh, so that is how you are going to play it? Close to the chest. I may not look impressive, legs, but you'll not get far with the young lady if I don't like you. She is a real mama's girl. His accent is subtle, definitely not American. Almost, but not quite, British public school. There is no such thing as unaccented English. He has to have learned it somewhere.

"Would you like some tea or coffee," I ask.


End file.
